- Published on
Brother, You Are the Best
There are years lost behind us,
full of words we never spoke,
and now we have our separate lives
and less time to share together.
But in my heart I have always felt
the love we have,
and neither distance nor time
can take away the bond
we forged as children.
Growing up, we played and fought,
talked and laughed.
Beyond the fun and games,
beyond the battles we waged,
we found in each other
unending support
and a lifelong friend.
Through thick and thin,
and difficult times,
we emerged together as one,
protecting each other
from the world.
I know that if either of us
ever need anything,
we can count on the other
to give our all
and help in every way possible.
Perhaps words are not always
necessary in our relationship,
because we both know what’s there.
But today I want to take the time
to remind you how much I really care
and thank you for all
that you have been to me.
I could never ask for, want,
or need a better brother,
because I have the best in you.
I love you!
by Erin N. Himelrick
There are years lost behind us,
full of words we never spoke,
and now we have our separate lives
and less time to share together.
But in my heart I have always felt
the love we have,
and neither distance nor time
can take away the bond
we forged as children.
Growing up, we played and fought,
talked and laughed.
Beyond the fun and games,
beyond the battles we waged,
we found in each other
unending support
and a lifelong friend.
Through thick and thin,
and difficult times,
we emerged together as one,
protecting each other
from the world.
I know that if either of us
ever need anything,
we can count on the other
to give our all
and help in every way possible.
Perhaps words are not always
necessary in our relationship,
because we both know what’s there.
But today I want to take the time
to remind you how much I really care
and thank you for all
that you have been to me.
I could never ask for, want,
or need a better brother,
because I have the best in you.
I love you!
by Erin N. Himelrick
- Published on
No Place Like Home
There’s no place like home
My safety harbor from the storm.
My cozy haven safe and warm.
No matter where I choose to roam . . .
There’s just no other place like home.
by Author Unknown
There’s no place like home
My safety harbor from the storm.
My cozy haven safe and warm.
No matter where I choose to roam . . .
There’s just no other place like home.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Little
I am the sister of him
And he is my brother.
He is too little for us
To talk to each other.
So every morning I show him
My doll and my book;
But every morning he still is
Too little to look.
by Dorothy Aldis
Dorothy Aldis was born as Dorothy Keeley on 13 March 1896 in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. She became a children’s author and a poet. Her books include “Hiding” (1920) and “Nothing Is Impossible: The Story of Beatrix Potter” (1969). Dorothy Aldis passed on at 70 years of age on 4 July 1966 in Lake Forest, Illinois, United States of America.
I am the sister of him
And he is my brother.
He is too little for us
To talk to each other.
So every morning I show him
My doll and my book;
But every morning he still is
Too little to look.
by Dorothy Aldis
Dorothy Aldis was born as Dorothy Keeley on 13 March 1896 in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America. She became a children’s author and a poet. Her books include “Hiding” (1920) and “Nothing Is Impossible: The Story of Beatrix Potter” (1969). Dorothy Aldis passed on at 70 years of age on 4 July 1966 in Lake Forest, Illinois, United States of America.
- Published on
Family
It’s knowing where your roots are
That sometimes gives you wings.
It’s knowing there’s a place to go
To escape the awful things.
It’s knowing there will always be
At least one person on your side.
Who’ll listen to your problems
And go along with you for the ride.
It’s comfort and it’s heartache
It’s pride and disappointment too.
It’s holding on and letting go
Cherishing old and accepting new.
It’s waiting for the next little one
To come and steal your heart.
And wondering how being called ‘Grandma’
Is such a warm and fuzzy start.
It’s watching time go racing by
Days, then weeks, then years.
It’s missing those who go too soon
To mix your laughter with your tears.
It’s remembering and forgetting
Loving and arguing too.
It was God’s plan from the start
And it’s still holding true.
So hold each day like precious crystal
That might break if you let go.
For roots and wings are compatible things
Make sure your children know.
By Faye Cook
It’s knowing where your roots are
That sometimes gives you wings.
It’s knowing there’s a place to go
To escape the awful things.
It’s knowing there will always be
At least one person on your side.
Who’ll listen to your problems
And go along with you for the ride.
It’s comfort and it’s heartache
It’s pride and disappointment too.
It’s holding on and letting go
Cherishing old and accepting new.
It’s waiting for the next little one
To come and steal your heart.
And wondering how being called ‘Grandma’
Is such a warm and fuzzy start.
It’s watching time go racing by
Days, then weeks, then years.
It’s missing those who go too soon
To mix your laughter with your tears.
It’s remembering and forgetting
Loving and arguing too.
It was God’s plan from the start
And it’s still holding true.
So hold each day like precious crystal
That might break if you let go.
For roots and wings are compatible things
Make sure your children know.
By Faye Cook
- Published on
My Cousin
Sometimes I wish we could go
Back to our childhood days.
Yet here we are, both of us grown,
With busy lives and out on our own.
Things change, but you’ll always be
My cousin, my friend, and loved by me.
by Author Unknown
Sometimes I wish we could go
Back to our childhood days.
Yet here we are, both of us grown,
With busy lives and out on our own.
Things change, but you’ll always be
My cousin, my friend, and loved by me.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Daddy
“Daddy, how much do you make an hour?” With a timid voice and idolizing eyes, the little boy greeted his father as he returned from work. Greatly surprised, but giving his boy a glaring look, the father said, “Look, not even your mother knows that. Don’t bother me now, I’m tired.”
“But, Daddy, just tell me please! How much do you make an hour?” the boy insisted. The father, finally giving up, replied, “Twenty dollars an hour.”
“Okay, Daddy. Could you loan me ten dollars?” the boy asked. Showing his restlessness and positively disturbed, the father yelled, “So that was the reason you asked how much I earn, right? Go to sleep and don’t bother me anymore!”
It was already dark and the father was thinking about what the boy had said and was feeling guilty. Maybe, he thought, his son really needed something. Finally, trying to ease his mind, the father went to his son’s room.
“Are you asleep?” asked the father.
“No, Daddy. Why?” Replied the boy, asleep.
“Here’s the money you asked for earlier,” the father said.
“Thanks, Daddy!” rejoiced the son, while putting his hand under his pillow and removing some money. “Now I have enough! Now I have twenty dollars!” the boy said to his father, who was gazing at his son, confused at what his son had just said.
Then the little boy said, “Here’s my $20.00. Daddy, could you please sell me one hour of your time?”
by Author Unknown
“Daddy, how much do you make an hour?” With a timid voice and idolizing eyes, the little boy greeted his father as he returned from work. Greatly surprised, but giving his boy a glaring look, the father said, “Look, not even your mother knows that. Don’t bother me now, I’m tired.”
“But, Daddy, just tell me please! How much do you make an hour?” the boy insisted. The father, finally giving up, replied, “Twenty dollars an hour.”
“Okay, Daddy. Could you loan me ten dollars?” the boy asked. Showing his restlessness and positively disturbed, the father yelled, “So that was the reason you asked how much I earn, right? Go to sleep and don’t bother me anymore!”
It was already dark and the father was thinking about what the boy had said and was feeling guilty. Maybe, he thought, his son really needed something. Finally, trying to ease his mind, the father went to his son’s room.
“Are you asleep?” asked the father.
“No, Daddy. Why?” Replied the boy, asleep.
“Here’s the money you asked for earlier,” the father said.
“Thanks, Daddy!” rejoiced the son, while putting his hand under his pillow and removing some money. “Now I have enough! Now I have twenty dollars!” the boy said to his father, who was gazing at his son, confused at what his son had just said.
Then the little boy said, “Here’s my $20.00. Daddy, could you please sell me one hour of your time?”
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Don’t Wake the Baby
Baby sleeps, so we must tread
Softly round her little bed,
And be careful that our toys
Do not fall and make a noise.
We must not talk, but whisper low,
Mother wants to work, we know,
That, when father comes to tea,
All may neat and cheerful be.
by Author Unknown
Baby sleeps, so we must tread
Softly round her little bed,
And be careful that our toys
Do not fall and make a noise.
We must not talk, but whisper low,
Mother wants to work, we know,
That, when father comes to tea,
All may neat and cheerful be.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
My Brother
We shared many secrets,
the same Mom and Dad.
We shared lots of good times -
don’t think of the bad.
Our memories we’ll treasure
with love without end.
I’m glad you’re my brother . . .
I’m glad you’re my friend.
by Author Unknown
We shared many secrets,
the same Mom and Dad.
We shared lots of good times -
don’t think of the bad.
Our memories we’ll treasure
with love without end.
I’m glad you’re my brother . . .
I’m glad you’re my friend.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Manners
I have an uncle I don’t like,
An aunt I cannot bear:
She chucks me underneath the chin,
He ruffles up my hair.
Another uncle I adore,
Another aunty, too:
She shakes me kindly by the hand,
He says, “How do you do?”
by Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer
Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer, also known as Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer and M. G. Van Rensselaer, was born as Mariana Alley Griswold on 21 February 1851 in New York City, New York, United States of America. She became a writer, focusing on architectural, art, and landscape criticism, as well as fiction and children’s literature. Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer passed on at 82 years of age on 20 January 1934 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
I have an uncle I don’t like,
An aunt I cannot bear:
She chucks me underneath the chin,
He ruffles up my hair.
Another uncle I adore,
Another aunty, too:
She shakes me kindly by the hand,
He says, “How do you do?”
by Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer
Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer, also known as Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer and M. G. Van Rensselaer, was born as Mariana Alley Griswold on 21 February 1851 in New York City, New York, United States of America. She became a writer, focusing on architectural, art, and landscape criticism, as well as fiction and children’s literature. Mariana Griswold Van Rensselaer passed on at 82 years of age on 20 January 1934 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
- Published on
Your Name
You got it from your father
’Twas the best he had to give.
And right gladly he bestowed it
It’s yours, the while you live.
You may lose the watch he gave you
and another you may claim,
But remember, when you’re tempted,
to be careful of this name.
It was fair the day you got it,
and a worthy name to bear,
When he took it from his father,
there was no dishonor there.
Through the years he proudly wore it,
to his father he was true,
And that name was clean and spotless
when he passed it on to you.
Oh, there’s much that he has given
that he values not at all.
He has watched you break your playthings
in the days when you were small.
You have lost the knife he gave you,
and you’ve scattered many a game,
But you’ll never hurt your father
if you’re careful with his name.
It is yours to wear forever,
yours to wear the while you live.
Yours, perhaps some distant morning,
another boy to give.
And you’ll smile as did your father -
with a smile that all can share,
If a clean name and a good name
you are giving him to wear.
by Edgar Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
You got it from your father
’Twas the best he had to give.
And right gladly he bestowed it
It’s yours, the while you live.
You may lose the watch he gave you
and another you may claim,
But remember, when you’re tempted,
to be careful of this name.
It was fair the day you got it,
and a worthy name to bear,
When he took it from his father,
there was no dishonor there.
Through the years he proudly wore it,
to his father he was true,
And that name was clean and spotless
when he passed it on to you.
Oh, there’s much that he has given
that he values not at all.
He has watched you break your playthings
in the days when you were small.
You have lost the knife he gave you,
and you’ve scattered many a game,
But you’ll never hurt your father
if you’re careful with his name.
It is yours to wear forever,
yours to wear the while you live.
Yours, perhaps some distant morning,
another boy to give.
And you’ll smile as did your father -
with a smile that all can share,
If a clean name and a good name
you are giving him to wear.
by Edgar Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
